Night of Wolves (21 page)

In the distance, a wolf howled. It seemed the entire village turned silent, the only noise that of the flickering torches. A second howl joined it, then a third, and in moments a great cacophony rolled through the streets, hundreds of howls of such volume it hurt the ear. Jerico felt his hands grow cold, and his throat tighten.

“Holy shit,” Jon muttered.

“We’re hoping for a miracle here,” Jerico said, shouting to be heard. “Care to keep the blaspheming down a little, eh?”

Despite the terror, Jon laughed.

“Sure thing. I’m better at killing, anyway.”

The chorus of howls thinned, the wolf-men no doubt on the charge. Jerico’s mace shook in his hand, and he closed his eyes for a moment of prayer. No fear. No cowardice. He thought of the many hiding behind him, with only his shield and mace to keep them safe. His failure meant their death. He would not fail.

He saw the first wolf-man for only a moment before an arrow plunged into its neck. It had stepped around a nearby house, and Darius’s archer had spotted it with ease in the torchlight. The thing let out a cry and fell to one knee. A second arrow thunked into its chest, and it lay still. The rest of the pack took up a cry, for they surely smelled the blood spilling across the dirt. Jerico braced himself as scattered groups of wolf-men rushed into view. The first of many spotted him, and it leapt toward him with a deep growl. It tripped along one of the ditches they’d dug and, off-balance, Jerico found it easy prey for his mace. The flanged edges smashed in its skull, and he kicked its body back, just another obstacle for the rest of the pack. Breathing heavily, he swallowed and tried to calm his nerves. The battle of Durham had begun.

His heart leapt into his throat when he heard the sound of tearing wood and breaking doors, but he realized it was only the many abandoned houses. The wolf-men hadn’t realized yet that all the survivors had gathered together, and they were busy searching throughout the town. This first assault would be the weakest, the most scattered, and he vowed to build a wall of dead around his door. A group of three wolf-men spotted him, and they charged in unison. Jon unleashed arrow after arrow. Without their armor, they were large, vulnerable targets, and he buried two up to the shaft into the leftmost’s chest. The other two vaulted over one ditch, only to crash into the second. Jerico winced, hearing wood snap, and one cried out in pain and did not get up. The other limped toward him, its eyes mad, its leg bleeding from a gaping wound in its thigh.

Jerico stepped into the doorway, knowing the creature would need to duck to enter within, therefore hurting its momentum. It swung its claws, and he blocked with his shield. At their contact, the wolf-man stepped back, yipping in pain. The light swelled on his shield, and taking a step forward, Jerico smashed the wolf in the face with the glowing steel. Blood splattered from its nose, and this time it fell to one knee. Jerico swung, his mace ending its life. The body lay beside the first, another building block for his wall.

An arrow sailed over his head, ending the struggles of the wolf still in the ditch.

“Two to two,” Jon cried. “I’m not impressed, paladin.”

“Long night left. I got time.”

What meager amusement he felt vanished as the rest of the pack appeared. They ran in groups of ten, howling and growling like mad dogs. They numbered in the hundreds, and against such numbers Jerico felt insignificant. His body flooded with adrenaline. This was it. He braced his legs, raised his shield, and prayed the others would endure.

“Fuck,” he heard Jon yell. “I don’t have enough arrows for
that!
”

The wolves flowed over the ditches and spikes like floodwaters over a dam. Many collapsed, and he heard bones snapping and howls of pain, but they were too few. It only slowed the charge, and only just. Jerico saw two jump at Darius, who cleaved one in half, then engaged the other, his blade blocking claws. Hangfield’s was too far to his left to see, so he could only hope they fared well. Arrows sailed from all three rooftops, but it seemed like spitting onto a campfire.

“To me, you monsters!” Jerico cried. “Bring your teeth, your claws, your blood!”

Half the swarm heading for Darius broke off. They flowed over the ditches, accepted Jon’s arrows, and slammed against the inn. Jerico braced himself, trusting his shield. The wolf-men slashed at him, but his armor was thick, and he shifted and pushed, refusing to let them pierce through. The power of his shield continued to harm them, and he heard their cries as wolf after wolf could not endure the pain. His arm throbbed, but he ignored it, just as he did the pain in his shoulder. Careful, methodical, he shoved with his shield, swung his mace in the brief opening, and then stepped back in retreat. Nearly every time, his mace drew blood. Too many of them pressed together, Jerico knew, unable to dodge or parry. They expected to bury him with sheer mass and muscle. They were wrong.

Piles of bodies built before him, until the wolf-men had to climb over. That was when he made a rare attack, wading into his opponents, his shield and mace slamming with brutal fury. He would not fail. He would not let them die. His shield struck a wolf in the chest, and as it staggered back, he cracked its skull from the top, dropping it into a heap before him. Standing atop it, he leapt at the next, blocking its desperate slash with his shield. Its other arm made it past, and it cut a deep groove in his breastplate. No blood, though the same could not be said for Jerico’s counter. He broke its jaw, swung again, and blasted an eye out from its socket. The wolf-man collapsed, and for the moment, Jerico could see out his door to the space between their buildings.

He wished he couldn’t. More wolves, scores of them. He heard wood tearing, and he saw many pulling at the boards to various windows. Once they made it in, they could attack from multiple directions. If that happened…

“Cowards!” he screamed. Much as his body ached, much as he desired the reprieve, he knew the wolf-men needed to be  kept wild with anger, unable to think, unable to realize the disadvantage they faced when challenging him in the doorway. He struggled to find breath to even cry out, but still he did. “Will you hide? Will you run? I am here, yet you play the coward and try for women and children?”

“You will die, human!” one cried, and several took up the cry.

“Blood,” they shouted. “Blood from the humans!”

An arrow sailed into the throat of the first, but this time, there was no bragging from Jon, no jokes.

“Get him,” shouted one of the wolf-men. Jerico felt his blood run cold, but he could do nothing. Several charged him, while others climbed the walls. Praying for the best, Jerico braced his legs once more, smacked his shield with his mace, and met the yellow gaze of his foe. Shield raised, he could only hope to endure for a time, until the wolves finally broke him down, split his armor, and had their feast.

T
he first wave was the easiest. Daniel stood in the center, his sword at ready. To his side and his back, his trusted soldiers held polearms. They were a wall of thorns and spears, and the first wolf that leapt at them found out the hard way. Blades pierced its body in three places, it fell to the ground, shoved away by the soldiers. The next two met similar fates, and Daniel dared to hope. Then the entirety of the attacking pack arrived, and he realized how foolish he had been. They tripped into ditches, they impaled themselves on the spikes, and still they came.

“Brace!” he commanded, and the men did. Three wolf-men leapt at once, slamming onto the ends of their weapons as if they desired death. Daniel swung his sword, lopping the head off one and piercing another through the heart. They could not shove them aside, though, for the wolves were a river, and it flowed against them in a constant stream of muscle, claws, and howling. Daniel stood in the center of it all, trusting his men to keep him from being overwhelmed. For a moment he felt like the young man he had been, his sword a part of himself, a shining death that cut through defenses and showered the ground with gore.

And then the priest made his presence known. A sound like thunder rolled across them, and lightning struck the earth, its center a deep black. A crater sunk at its impact, and several wolves crumpled, their innards blackened. Daniel cheered at the raw display of power. The strange priest certainly had his uses. Renewed, he let out a cry and cut down his attackers.

But Daniel’s strength soon failed him, and despite the spears, wolf-men twisted and slashed undeterred. Claws raked across his forehead. Blood ran across his eyes, and blinded, he fell back. His men closed the gap instantly, the entryway of the house filled with the sound of battle. Collapsing against a wall, he sat there as someone wiped away the blood and pressed a heavy cloth against his wound.

“It is not lethal,” Jeremy said, apparently his nurse.

“Course not,” Daniel muttered. “Take more than a scratch to bring an old bull like me down.”

He was blustering, of course. His head throbbed in agony, and he felt like his breath would never come back to him. Still, he forced himself to a stand. Another soldier fell back, blood gushing from his torn throat. Daniel tried to take his place, but his men would not let him.

“Rest,” Gregory said, commanding the defense. “Take your place when you must.”

“Fine,” Daniel said, turning to Jeremy. “Tie this, will you?”

Jeremy knotted the cloth behind his head, pulling it so tight he thought his skull was going to explode. He gritted his teeth and endured the pain. As he picked up his sword, he heard screams from further in the house.

“The windows?” he asked.

“Men guard them,” Jeremy said. “But yes, I fear so.”

“Hold the door,” Daniel shouted to his men. “By the gods, we’ll make legends of ourselves tonight, if we must!”

He and Jeremy hurried down the hall, following the sound of screams. In the first bedroom, they found a single farmer thrusting a pitchfork into a gap in the window, half the boards covering it torn loose. The farmer’s wife and children huddled beside the door, sobbing. Two wolf-men batted at the pitchfork and dug at the boards like wild animals.

“Stand firm!” Daniel shouted, joining the farmer. His sword thrust into the gap, and he smiled with grim satisfaction at the resistance he felt, knowing his blade pierced chest or belly. He pulled back, thrust again, and now emboldened, the farmer stabbed with his pitchfork, giving no more ground. The first fell dead, but it was replaced by another. Arms reached into the room, seeking anything to grab hold of with their sharp claws. Daniel swung, the farmer stabbed, and they built their own pile of dead at the window.

All at once, the assault stopped.

“Brace your pitchfork,” Daniel said, gasping for breath. “Don’t you run on me, you hear? You stand here, stand tall, and keep that fucking thing pointed at the window.”

The man nodded. His eyes were wide, his skin pale. He was a hair’s width away from running. It didn’t matter that there was no safety anywhere in the village. All he wanted was away from the wolves, Daniel knew, to where he didn’t have to see their hungry eyes, their shining teeth, and their wicked claws. Daniel stood beside him, aimed his blood-soaked blade at the window, and again ordered him to stand firm.

“Here they come,” he said, seeing yellow glinting in the torchlight. The wolf-men, tired of trying to push through, had gained some distance so they could run. Leaping into the window, they crashed through the boards, the first one impaling itself on the farmer’s pitchfork. The man let out a cry, his bladder let go, but he did not run. Daniel felt proud, and he refused to let the wolves gain entry. He cut down the next, then stepped closer, calling for the farmer to join his side.

“Jeremy!” he cried. “Get men in here. Beds, boards, anything to block this damn window!”

Another thunderclap shook the house, and Daniel hoped the priest had killed twenty of the sons of bitches overrunning the village. Through the window, he saw the wolf-men gathering, preparing another leap. Three lay dead on the floor of the room, and he could do nothing to remove them. Seeing the pack, seeing their numbers, he could not blame the farmer’s desire to run. They were endless, and he was old, and tired. The night, however, was still young.

“You run, I cut you down,” he said to the farmer. “And I run, you better do the same damn thing to me.”

Blade and pitchfork lifted, they drank in the blood of wolves as the next charge came.